


Old Souls

by th3rm0pyl43



Series: Nothing Left to Burn [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Civil War, F/F, F/M, False Identity, Family Issues, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Padmé Amidala Lives, mixing old and new canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-08-13 10:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7973110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th3rm0pyl43/pseuds/th3rm0pyl43
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dark Lord, being the dreaded enforcer of a tyrant's fickle will, might as well have risen from Chaos itself - and yet he longs for his lost humanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shipyards' Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events are set in motion as great forces rest.

The legendary shipyards of Kuat were a sight to behold, even from the faraway position at which the _Executor_ fell out of hyperspace before receiving clearance to approach the system's fourth planet.

A massive ring of steel, bustling with activity like a beehive, encircled the endearingly tranquil green world. Ships of all types and sizes lay scattered across thousands upon thousands of service bays; shuttles, frigates, transports and light cruisers were undergoing assembly next to hulking capital ships. Serving as an example, a whole batch of colorful gunboats was overshadowed by the stark white skeleton of a stout wedge-shaped _Imperial_ -class Star Destroyer - which itself was utterly dwarfed by the _Executor_.

Standing in his favorite spot on the silver Star Dreadnought's bridge and allowing himself to lie adrift in the currents of the Force, Lord Vader noted with mild amusement that his flagship elicited a great deal of 'oohs' and 'aahs' as the sleek arrowhead filled a myriad stargazers' vision. The Kuati didn't get to see her often - she emerged from most of her battles with nary a scratch and had not been in need of dry dock repairs for two years. That fact, however, was no excuse to play truant from scheduled maintenance; Director Kuat himself had insisted that he wouldn't allow any of Death Squadron's ships to miss a maintenance appointment even if the Rebellion "threw another Yavin at us". Lord Vader had sternly reminded that there would not _be_ a Death Squadron to be absent if that happened.

For said maintenance purpose, the Kuat shipyards had been outfitted with a dry dock suitable for the galaxy’s largest warship.

_"Standard procedure, milord"_ Director Kuat had said apologetically, quite privy to the Dark Lord’s irritation at the mere _implication_ that his flagship would ever suffer significant damage.

_"There is no such thing as a ship we cannot take care of, and we intend to uphold that standard."_

Then again, dreadnoughts could take much more vicious a beating than destroyers before turning into stardust.

Lord Vader watched from his spot in front of the bridge’s viewports as the _Executor_ made her way past sensor arrays, satellites, defense platforms, patrol ship cordons and the occasional battlecruiser and listened intently as the comm crew was burdened with countless security checks until the final clearance for the docking process was given. He heard his Admiral order the helmsmen to cut the engines and could very well picture the crimson light fading from the massive stardrives; a yellowish green glow, mingling with the blue of the deflector shields, enveloped the Star Dreadnought’s hull as the dry dock’s tractor beams reached out to her across the great distance still dividing them. At the same time, six _Interdictor_ -class cruisers who had tailed the _Executor_ engaged their gravity well generators, nailing themselves and the five following Star Destroyers in place, whose respective tractor beams then shot out to slowly but steadily halt the twelve-fold larger vessel’s inertia-induced drift.

The maneuver, meticulously calculated by the involved ships’ autopilots, was not as easy it looked. The _Executor_ was now at the mercy of her fleet and the shipyards, and should she deviate from her intended path by even a thousand meters (which was not much by the Imperial Starfleet’s standards, mind), a great number of lives would be in peril, for the gargantuan warship spinning out of control was an unstoppable force.

But as Lord Vader reached out with his senses, eyes closed behind his mask, he only found perfect order as opposed to the chaos he had imagined along with that particular worst-case scenario. Reassured that everything was going according to the plan for once, a wave of simple satisfaction washed over him, a sensation he had missed terribly after several months’ worth of being spited, double-crossed, lied to and blown raspberries by the Rebels and his ever-elusive son.

_Luke._

Vader found himself thinking of the boy yet again.

_"No… no! That’s not true… that’s_ impossible _!"_

Luke’s words had stung, and his immediate reaction even more. Seeing that he would rather toss himself down a bottomless shaft than acknowledge his father’s identity had left a throbbing ache in the Dark Lord’s chest as if a hole had been torn into it - or salt had been poured upon the scars and burns and gaping wounds that, while no longer physical, did not hurt any less than when they had still been fresh.

Had he been his old self, Vader would have welcomed the agony of his soul. He knew well that pain was one’s friend, for it reminded one that one was still alive - but ever since he had learned that it had been his son who had sent the Death Star, that _abomination_ , to join Alderaan in oblivion; that he even _had_ a son; that he had not killed his beloved wife; that his master had _lied_ to him - the Dark Lord of the Sith had not been the same.

Shoving those thoughts out of his mind for now, Vader regained his focus on the present to find the _Executor_ safely resting in the galaxy’s only service bay large enough to hold the Star Dreadnought. A few meters behind him, Admiral Piett was giving out orders for a skeleton crew of fifty thousand men to stay on board and granted the remaining two hundred and thousand crew members three days of shore leave, all in his usual calm, level-headed manner.

_A good man indeed_ , Lord Vader thought to himself.

_I would hate to find myself forced to dispose of him, and he knows that. Or so I hope._

Hope.

_It is foolish to hope._

His mood darkening once more, the Supreme Commander decided to _do_ something instead of moping around, drowning in rising anxiety and impairing his crew’s ability to work. He turned on his heel to approach his Admiral, waiting and listening until the short man in olive was finished and gave his acknowledgment.

“My Lord?”

“I will retire to my quarters” Vader told him. “The bridge is yours, Admiral.”

With that, the Dark Lord departed, leaving a trusted one in command.

Immediately the air seemed to lighten on the bridge and some intangible tension eased, as if a great weight had been lifted off the crew’s shoulders.

As uncertain Admiral Piett was about his fate ever since his field promotion, he could not help feeling like something was taken away from him every time his Lord relinquished the bridge of this great warship.

Little did he know that the man with the noose was the bearer of an impenetrable shield.

* * *

 Silence was a rare occurrence in the cockpit of the battered YT-1300 freighter that went by the name of _Millennium Falcon_. Now that the scoundrel who called her his own was in the hands of a certain Mandalorian bounty hunter bound for Tatooine, the lively banter and good-natured bickering between astromechs and protocol droids and princesses and smugglers was painfully absent.

Not even C-3PO found it in his mechanical heart to lift the suffocating pall of silence with his otherwise so abundant chatter. His friend R2-D2 rolled around the flying rust bucket’s corridors with only the occasional beep; former Administrator Lando Calrissian resorted to losing match upon match of dejarik to the Wookiee copilot Chewbacca; young Luke Skywalker sat brooding, and Princess Leia alternated volatilely between longing and weeping for her dear smuggler.

The events at Cloud City had left each of this once merry band with a heavy heart. Lando had been betrayed. Leia’s lover had been frozen in carbonite and abducted by Boba Fett. Artoo had narrowly avoided being eaten by a swamp-dwelling creature. Threepio had been smashed to pieces. And Luke - Luke was not sure what to make of Darth Vader’s words.

_“Obi-Wan never told you what happened to your father.”_

_“He told me enough. He told me you killed him!”_

It could not be true. It could _not._

_“No._ I _am your father.”_

Luke refused to believe that Ben Kenobi had lied to him. The elderly Jedi Master had taught him so much - why would he spread falsehoods about the father the boy had never known, the father he longed for? Could this awful truth indeed be truth?

Was Vader even human? What kind of woman would have gotten _this_ close to that monster? Or had she _loved_ …

Was _everything_ a single great cesspit of lies and treachery and sin and violence, a dystopia of galactic proportions?

Luke buried his face in his hands. The naïve little desert-dweller within him desperately wanted to break down and wail and cry for his father, only to - to what? To find himself looking up at the nightmarish black mask of the scourge of the universe? At the shapeless face of a specter?

The young Jedi knew better than to slip into denial.

_“Search your feelings. You know it to be true.”_

For now, he would lose himself in resignation, calling out to the one who might have an answer.

“Ben…” he whispered. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

He curled up just a little tighter on his cot.

“...why didn’t you tell me?”

* * *

 Lightyears away, this anguished soul’s cry was drowned out in a howling thunderstorm of fury.

Power surged and sparks flew as metal quarterstaves clashed with a white-hot scarlet blade of plasma; the Force was alight, dancing around the Dark Lord like a ring of flames. His vision was a blur, clouded by a crimson haze.

_“Your eyes can deceive you. Don’t trust them.”_

The dead Master’s voice - that of the deceitful schemer and the deceived fool - only served to fuel the inferno. Undying hatred removed all wisdom from his words, a hatred burning brighter yet than the fires in which it had been christened. And the Dark Lord _remembered_.

The Force gathered in hands blind to it, then was released in a burst of raw, unfettered anger. Two of the MagnaGuards Lord Vader was dueling with - no less deadly than they had been in the Clone Wars - were flung backwards and crashed into the reinforced walls of the salle. The third merely staggered, thrown off balance, before sidestepping and raising its staff; the droid and its kin had been programmed to behave in a most erratic manner, yet they were laughably predictable to their opponent, who used them not to challenge himself but for the sheer thrill of fighting something that would strike down any lesser man in a matter of seconds.

Vader swung his blade in a wide arc, making use of his great strength to overpower the MagnaGuard and make its mechanical knees buckle under the pressure as it attempted to block the mighty blow. With the lightest touch of the Force, the droid collapsed in a heap of burnished plasteel.

Returning to a basic guarding stance, the Dark Lord relished in the heat of his flaming wrath. He would never understand why a Force-sensitive would possibly want to live in strict devotion to the Light, to deny themselves the vast power of the Dark.

Neither would he encourage an apprentice to simply _give in_ to their anger - that was exactly the _wrong_ way. Tight control was the key to understanding, and understanding led to pride and passion, which marked the road to freedom.

_Through victory, my chains are broken._

And victorious he would be, he vowed to himself, in due time.

Until then, he would rein in his fury, casting a soothing pall over the blaze to reduce it to smoldering embers. The Force, once churning and restless, then followed in kind, rough seas growing tranquil.

Lord Vader opened his eyes. He had squeezed them shut as the memory of Mustafar had come back to haunt him, as if to shield himself from the pain it brought.

_I know my place._

The insight was simple. He knew his place - and had never been more certain of it. His iron lung still rasped. His heart still beat to the machinery’s rhythm. His vision was still tinted red. His artificial hands still grasped the lightsaber. The crimson blade still hummed.

But the Dark Lord knew that he was right where he belonged.


	2. Two Crossing Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance encounter invokes an old enemy’s wrath.

It had been entirely on a whim that Admiral Piett had decided to have a jaunt on the rainy surface of Kuat.

Though he'd gone to ask his Lord for permission with some trepidation, he found that he did not regret taking the risk of a harsh reprimand at best and Force-induced strangulation at worst. After spending the past three years aboard a Star Dreadnought, the dull ache of longing had returned in full force.

Now the Admiral of Death Squadron, having traded his immaculate olive uniform for inconspicuous sand-colored civilian clothes and his otherwise omnipresent escort of four stormtroopers for sweet solitude, wandered aimlessly through a small city far from the planet's capital. For all his love of the vast emptiness among the stars, lively little settlements had a certain charm to him. He felt right at home without the sheer density of population of worlds like Coruscant or Taris, without the acrid stench the wind carried on Fondor or the violent storms of Utapau.

Gentle rain came pouring down from the white clouds here on Kuat. It brought the fresh scent of nature that spacers often were quick to come to miss terribly. Being no exception, Piett relished the sensation, allowing his mind to drift even as his feet kept walking.

Until he collided with a wall, that is.

Blinking rapidly to regain his bearings, he found himself looking up at a burly cyan-skinned Twi'lek with an unsightly scar across his left eye. The man was dressed in a typical smuggler's getup - dark trousers, a grey shirt and a charcoal jacket, which bore a number of black and grey markings. In an instant, the Admiral knew whom he was dealing with; the old habit of knowing thine enemy died hard. On top of all, he had wandered right into one of the deserted alleyways he'd wanted to avoid.

"Going somewhere, little man?" the towering Twi'lek grunted, a hand reaching for a blaster Piett couldn't see but was absolutely certain was there.

"Nowhere in particular. Just visiting the city" he replied evenly.

Inwards, he was spewing profanities. A sticky situation was the last thing he needed on his first shore leave in years.

"Ah. A tourist."

The Twi’lek thug grinned, revealing pearly white but crooked teeth.

"Sailor maybe? World’s being flooded with ‘em."

"A stranger’s occupation is none of your business" Piett told him and prepared to walk away. "If you would excuse me…"

"Not" a gravelly voice behind him rumbled, and with a great deal of self-control, he fought the urge to whirl around.

_Not yet._

The Twi’lek’s grin gave way to mock desolation.

"Well, friend, you saw us" he said, "and we’re under orders not be seen. That means we can’t let you leave this here street."

Piett craned his neck to give the man a deadpan look.

"Attempting to shoot me would not be advisable" he stated, earning guffaws from both thugs.

"What are you gonna do, shrimp?” the one in front of him taunted, now brandishing a small, compact blaster. “Use some Jedi powers to make us forget what we wanted?”

The Admiral gave the impression of shifting uncomfortably, even nervously, as he decided that this show was soon to be over; he was indeed on edge, lean muscles coiled in anticipation.

Then, next thing the Twi’lek knew, an elbow slammed into his solar plexus with breathtaking force. The blaster slipped from his grasp, clattering to the duracrete ground, and the other thug swore wildly in some exotic language; Piett wasted no time in ducking beneath a blaster bolt he’d expected to be fired right at the back of his head.

Turning around, he found the remaining thug to be a wiry dark-skinned human in his thirties. Black eyes widened in recognition, then momentary fright and finally blind rage.

The man swung a fist at his would-be victim’s chin, who dodged the rather clumsy blow with a swift sidestep and disarmed him with a smack of bare knuckles to the wrist. Ten years younger or not, a Black Sun thug was no match for a senior officer of the Imperial Navy, let alone one as extensively trained in hand-to-hand combat as the Admiral of Death Squadron.

Crying out in pain, the thug went down as an iron fist connected with the side of his head, and then there was silence in the dark alleyway once more.

Piett eyed the first Black Sun gangster, who was still on the ground, groaning and panting. He had surprised himself with how little the effectiveness of his preferred combat style had diminished in his twenty years of Navy service - then again, most of his adversaries had been just as dimwitted as they had made themselves look by underestimating him.

Truth be told, serving the galaxy's most unforgiving commander for three years to date had hardly dulled the ruthless man who had, decades ago, rid his homeworld of pirates like curing a rampant disease. On the contrary, it had taught him a great many lessons, and the Admiral thoroughly enjoyed the thrill of concealing this with his rather petite stature and soft-spoken manner. _Very_ few had seen the iron beneath.

"Does the name _Piett_ ring a bell?" he inquired, a harsh edge to his voice.

Even less had lived to tell the tale.

Evidently, the Black Sun thug who had held him at gunpoint and now lay curled up on the ground _did_ know who the infamous former commander of the Axxila Antipirate Fleet was. Perhaps he also realized that this mousy, endearingly brave dwarf was no other than said pirate hunter, for the man made an effort to look up at his victor with unadulterated terror in his eyes.

For once, the Admiral thought, it felt good to be feared.

* * *

 In the Kuati capital, an Imperial medical officer had not been so fortunate. Reported missing after being nowhere to be seen for two days, the man had been found dead, shot in the head with a blaster, behind a garbage bin at a minor spaceport five hours before Death Squadron was scheduled to leave the system; the departure was delayed in favor of an investigation. Nothing had turned up so far - no traces of the killer nor their weapon, no clues, _nothing_ \- and no one had seen anything out of the ordinary within the last three days.

However, the exact circumstances of the doctor’s death were the least of Lorin Kallic’s worries. What gave him by far the worst headache was the identity of the victim, for out of all the noncombatants serving aboard the ships of Death Squadron, it had had to be Lord Vader’s personal physician.

Captain of the _Executor_ or not, Kallic had no idea how to approach the Dark Lord with this particular piece of bad news. Sitting alone in his office and brooding over some micromanagement bumf had not helped him come up with a solution yet; he could not simply walk up to the masked Supreme Commander and tell him that his physician had apparently been murdered planetside, could he?

As the Captain’s comlink beeped in his pocket, he swore out loud before picking up the call. If Vader had chosen to contact him personally, he might as well have shot himself right there.

“Kallic” he grunted.

To his utmost relief, it was his more immediate superior’s soft voice that greeted him, albeit curtly.

“ _Captain, your presence is required on the bridge in ten minutes. Do not delay._ ”

“On my way, Admiral, sir” Kallic responded, switched off the comlink, and swore again.

This was going to be a long day.

* * *

 Captain Kallic was unsure whether he had ever been this nervous upon entering the _Executor_ 's bridge. He threw a wary glance across the chamber; there was no sign of homicidal Sith Lords, yet he failed to shake off the feeling that his very own doomsday clock was ticking.

Thus he thanked the stars for the welcome distraction as he spotted the commander of Death Squadron among the handful of olive-clad Navy officers supervising the bridge, standing at the end of the central walkway and likely enjoying the marvelous view of the green gem that was Kuat. Being a head shorter than the average human, the man was not exactly easy to miss.

The Captain took a deep breath to steel himself, then strode down the walkway and stood at attention behind his superior.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" he said, saluting as the Admiral turned on his heel.

"Indeed, Captain."

Piett returned the salute.

"Do you have an update on the investigation?"

Down to business as always. Kallic flinched minutely, just barely mustering the courage not to hightail it back to his quarters. He knew well enough to steer clear of Lord Vader whenever possible, but sometimes even the mousy Admiral terrified him in entirely different ways.

He cleared his throat.

“Well, sir, nothing we don’t already know has turned up so far. There is still no trace of the perpetrator.”

Piett raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing? No one saw anything?” he inquired.

The Captain shook his head and wetted his lips.

“No, sir, absolutely nothing. In three days. I’m afraid this is going to be one of those unsolvable cases.”

“ _All_ mysteries can be solved, Captain” his superior chastised him, “with appropriate resources, of which we have plenty, and the will to have truth see the light of day. Your display of the latter is rather unconvincing, if I may be so blunt.”

Now Kallic nodded, his gaze cast downward. Down at his boots, that is, and not at the short Admiral.

“Yessir. I apologize, sir.”

“Apology accepted” Piett responded irritably. “Now, tell me what we _do_ know pertaining to this nigh-unsolvable case of yours.”

“We have been able to confirm the victim’s identity, sir. It is Dr. Vinius Polor, Lord Vader’s personal physician.”

The Admiral’s lips tightened for a split second and Kallic swore he could see a hint of unadulterated fear flit across the man’s features, of that same ghost that had plagued him ever since he’d been placed in charge of Death Squadron. A wave of sympathy washed over him, though it broke against a stern mask of command falling smoothly into place.

“I do not see how that particular piece of news could possibly have you so distressed, Captain.”

Kallic drew in a deep breath.

“Sir, may I speak freely?”

Piett inclined his head minutely.

“You may.”

“Lord Vader has been responsible for the death of many a bearer of bad news, sir. You know, with what happened to Captain Needa… I would rather-”

“Captain Needa, may he rest in peace” the Admiral cut him off, his voice taking on a slight edge, “fell victim to those intrepid Rebels and their deception, not to His Lordship’s harshness. _They_ were responsible for his death. They left him no choice but to sacrifice his own life for his crew’s.”

Perhaps it was Piett’s commanding tone or the sudden fierce look in his hazel eyes; the Captain felt the imaginary lump in his throat lighten just a bit. A shudder ran down his spine nevertheless.

“Do you understand, Captain? It was _not_ Needa’s fault.”

“I do, sir!” he said firmly and squared his shoulders.

“Good.”

His superior nodded grimly.

“Lord Vader will arrive in approximately half an hour to demand an update on the situation” he went on with a flinty gaze. “I expect you to deliver your own report to him as well.”

Kallic swallowed.

“Yessir.”

He was in for thirty minutes - which had never felt so awfully long to him - of fidgeting, pacing and tugging at his collar, and judging looks on the Admiral’s part to boot, telling him to stop being a scaredy-cat and take it like a man.

 _Sweet irony_ , the Captain thought to himself. _Should’ve seen his own face after Bespin. No wonder they call ‘em Cold Sweat_.

Contempt welled up in his gut, adding itself to the roiling mix of trepidation and uncertainty. He wound up being absolutely certain that the day could not possibly get any worse.

 _Dangerous thoughts to think, Lorin. Lady Fate won’t pass up a chance to ruin someone’s life_ , he mused as he stared out into the blackness of space. _Or to take it, for that matter._

Lord Vader, however, did not appear to be in bad enough a mood to shoot the messenger. He simply stood there as Captain Kallic repeated to him almost verbatim what he had told the Admiral, black mask inscrutable as ever.

“I see” he finally said, his tone devoid of all emotion. “A replacement will have to be found.”

“Of course, milord” Kallic agreed hoarsely.

“Arrange for NavIntel to take charge of the investigation, Captain. I want Death Squadron to depart for Imperial Center in two hours’ time.”

“Yes, Lord Vader.”

The Captain allowed himself to breathe a minuscule sigh of relief as the Dark Lord turned away to address his Admiral. He would live to see another day.

Were he not shaking in his boots, Kallic would even have brought up the effort to listen in on whatever it was that His Lordship had to personally discuss with Piett - shameless ambition was not beneath him after all - but he felt he had already tempted fate enough.

Eavesdropping on one’s superiors in a situation like this would be _begging_ for trouble to be dropped into his lap. It wasn’t like Captain Kallic of the _Executor_ had nothing to do, anyway.

* * *

 “Solo did _what_?”

Even Mon Mothma, leader of the Alliance to Restore the Republic and the staunchest politician among the former members of the Imperial Senate, failed to conceal her expression of shock as Princess Leia Organa related to her what had happened in the time following the fateful Battle of Hoth.

“ _He hid from our Imperial pursuers inside an asteroid field_ ” Leia repeated. “ _Threepio here tried to tell him that it was utter madness, but he didn’t want to listen_.”

More quietly, barely audible over the hypercomm’s static, she muttered “ _He never listens._ ”.

Mothma exhaled sharply and schooled her features with palpable effort.

“An asteroid field… very well. What other reckless actions did Captain Solo take in order to escape from the Empire?”

The princess’ hologram flickered.

“ _He used the_ Falcon _’s landing claws to hide in plain sight on the rear side of a Star Destroyer’s bridge tower and disengaged just before the Imperial fleet jumped into hyperspace. Afterwards, he took us to the nearby mining colony of Bespin. I’ve already told you the rest._ ”

Mothma nodded slowly, pondering this for a moment.

“You said Solo was tortured on Cloud City” she mused aloud, noting the way Leia stiffened. “Has he spilled anything to the Imperials? Any information?”

The princess shook her head, and her holographic image flickered yet again.

“ _No, ma’am, since he had none to begin with. Besides, he told me that they hadn’t even asked him any questions_.”

She cringed visibly.

“ _It seems they just tortured him for torture’s sake_.”

Mothma sighed and raised a comforting hand.

“Leia” she said softly, “we _will_ rescue Captain Solo, fear not. But I am afraid we simply do not have the resources to do so right now. We’ve lost many good people on Hoth, and in our hasty retreat, we were forced to leave much of our equipment behind.”

She let her hand drop as Leia nodded shakily.

“Nevertheless, thank you for calling us, Leia. Remember, we are always here, should you be in need of someone to talk to - but now there is much to do for us.”

“ _Yes, ma’am. I understand_ ” the princess responded, at which Mothma offered her a smile.

“Goodbye, Leia. Stay safe.”

“ _Goodbye, Madam Mothma_.”

The connection was cut, and the dimmed lights in the Alliance commanders’ makeshift war room sprang back to full brightness as soon as Leia’s hologram had dissolved. A blubbering squeak of protest came from the Mon Calamari Gial Ackbar’s direction; Mothma turned to find him covering his large, bulbous yellow eyes with his fin-like hands.

“Ah, stars!” he groused. “This is why I prefer to conduct negotiations in person!”

“It can’t be helped” Carlist Rieekan grunted beside him, rubbing his forehead. “And even if it could, it wouldn’t be our job to do.”

He scowled.

“If I ever see that son of a Hutt again, by the Goddess, I’ll be sure to show him what it means to be the Butcher of Hoth!”

“Please do so” Crix Madine commented, to which Jan Dodonna and Borsk Fey’lya, both frowning, nodded their agreement.

“Bickering will get us nowhere, gentlemen” Mothma reminded them firmly. “Now that the Empire has dealt us such a devastating blow, we must hold fast more than ever. Do not forget, my friends, that discord only weakens us further.”

Wordless nods were all the affirmatives she needed, and so she gave a smile, albeit thin, to her fellow Alliance leaders.

“Shall we discuss our next relocation?”

And thus they spoke and agreed, unaware that from somewhere in the galaxy, someone had listened.


	3. Coiling Serpents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behind the veil of honorable business, a conspiracy begins its course.

Tatooine had hardly changed, Boba Fett found as the first thin layers of dust began forming on the transparisteel of _Slave 1_ ’s cockpit. The bounty hunter’s ship had hardly passed the stratosphere when the planet bade him welcome, showering the vessel in sand as if embracing an old friend.

The description was accurate, Fett mused as _Slave 1_ continued her descent towards a seemingly endless wasteland. Tatooine was a world of its own. Harsh and arid - and yet there was life in the desert, thriving on what little the sands blessed it with.

Fett, too, had learned to survive in a galaxy where change was the only constant. High and noble as the Republic had stood, never in his lifetime had it been desperate enough as to stoop so low and place bounties on its enemies’ heads - not to mention that its greatest enemy had sat in its very Senate.

The Empire, on the other hand, had little qualms about seeking aid from below law and order, if less out of desperation to remain in its position of supremacy than sheer irritation at the Rebel Alliance’s continued existence. Though Fett cared little about the civil war beyond the plentiful business opportunities it offered, he was not so greedy as to view it solely as a reliable source of income. Nor was he foolish enough to forgo keeping himself informed.

Hoth had been an iron-fisted blow to the Rebels’ morale, he knew. He’d even run into the man responsible on his way to the _Executor_ ’s bridge - none too friendly towards the bounty hunter and his ilk, the fellow, but Fett had given him a silent nod nevertheless. _Thanks for making my job easier._ He owed the Empire that much.

And yet here the hunter was, his course set for the palace of no other than Jabba the Hutt.

The sand carried upon mighty winds had made it nigh-impossible to see out of the cockpit’s front viewport, prompting Fett to switch on the autopilot as he was hailed. Flying blind while putting up with a nerve-grating flight controller was _not_ his specialty.

“ _Achuta_ ” a droidic voice greeted him. “ _You are approaching the palace of Jabba the Hutt. Identify yourself_.”

The droid proceeded to repeat itself in Huttese, but the bounty hunter cut it off mid-sentence.

“This is _Slave 1_. Jabba expects me - I’ve got a present for him. Transmitting ID codes.”

Fett pressed the appropriate buttons and then took back control of _Slave 1_ , holding his position high above Tatooine’s sun-scorched sands.

“ _Acknowledged_ ” the droid responded after just a moment. “ _Reserving hangar bay Isk. Welcome, Mr. Fett._ ”

“My pleasure.”

The hunter easily found his way to the palace’s landing bays, even with his ship caked in dust; he knew every twist, swerve, dive and turn like the back of his hand. He was indeed an old friend of Tatooine’s - though none of Jabba’s. That slimy slug could rot in the nine hells for all Fett cared, for the Bounty Hunters’ Guild stuck tight to its code and the Hutt Cartels had none; however, business remained business - no place for hard feelings.

As soon as _Slave 1_ rested safely on a rusty durasteel platform, the bounty hunter went to check on his precious cargo.

Encased in solid carbonite, Han Solo looked every bit as terrified as he’d appeared back in Cloud City - hands raised as if to shield himself, face contorted in pain, head thrown back in an instinctive flinch, all frozen in time. Quite a pitiful sight, Fett found - unworthy of the galaxy’s most infamous smuggler.

“Not so smug now, eh, Solo?”

He clicked his tongue.

“Can’t blame you. I wouldn’t have tried to run away from the Empire if I’d been in your shoes.”

 _From Vader, that is_ , he added silently. _No use trying to outrun the Fierce Lady._

Of course, the scoundrel-turned-statue was in no state to reply, and Fett heaved a sigh as he set to removing the carbonite slab containing Solo from its fastenings and activated its built-in repulsorlifts.

“Come on, Solo. Let’s not keep Jabba waiting.”

* * *

 Jabba Desilijic Tiure turned out to have been waiting for too long, as he seemed to have a hard time containing his thunderous laughter as the green-clad bounty hunter presented his long-time debtor to him.

“Ahahaha! _Inkabunga! Beesga dopa-meeky -_ Solo _…”_

Jabba trailed off, throwing a thoroughly satisfied look after the guards who went to mount the carbonite slab on a wall in clear sight of his favorite dais.

“ _Oto nooleya ma moulee-rah wanga ruody_ ” Fett rumbled, upon which the Hutt turned back to him.

“ _Tagwa, kuteela_ ” Jabba replied.

The hunter bowed curtly. One day, as always - he could wait.

Tatooine offered plenty of entertainment after all, if one knew just where to look for it.

* * *

After Fett had left for Mos Eisley, Jabba tasked his majordomo Bib Fortuna with running business for a while. Had he not been working for the Hutt for decades already, the pale Twi’lek would have been puzzled; Jabba rarely left the household to him at this time of day, and when he did, there was usually something out of the ordinary to take care of.

The majordomo’s prediction proved correct when he received a holocall from an encrypted number. Upon picking up, a gravelly feminine voice spoke immediately, not even leaving him time to say ‘hello?’ to the comm station’s blank hologram.

“ _Am I speaking with Bib Fortuna, majordomo to Jabba Desilijic Tiure the Hutt?_ ”

“Who wants to know?”

“ _The forces of corruption_.”

"I-"

A soft beep indicated that the call was being redirected.

“ _Mr. Fortuna_?”

Now a man spoke, his voice smooth and pleasant in tone. The Twi’lek, however, was having none of it.

“Who _is_ this?!” he snapped.

“ _My name is Tyber Zann, and I have a business offer for your master._ ”

Fortuna grew pale as Hoth’s snow.

* * *

 Tatooine indeed had hardly changed, and neither had Chalmun’s Cantina.

Like the planet, the bar was still widely regarded as a wretched hive of scum and villainy despite having its fair share of honorable folk. Boba Fett prided himself on being part of the latter.

The irony was not lost on him, considering that he was currently listening on an avid storytelling session a handful of Black Sun thugs were holding in the booth next to his.

“...see, we’d jus’ come back from cappin’ some MedCorps sawbones” one of them half-slurred in heavily Rimworld-accented Basic, “an’ we was slinkin’ through them alleys, try’na lay low all the way back to the pad.”

A glass clinked.

“And then - ya won’t believe it-" another man piped up more clearly, speaking with a distinct Corellian twang, "-we run into this _guy_. He's really freakin' tiny, like, five feet something. Looked like a total wimp in his brown civvies, but _damn_ , was he prancin' like greybacks on a parade ground!"

The Rimworlder groaned loudly, followed by a thud of skull meeting table.

"Ugh. Jus'... don't make me relive _that_ , man. Imma rather shag Gardulla herself than get this poodoo rubbed in mah face all the damn time."

His buddy went on regardless.

"I was gonna shoo 'em off, tell 'em to go home to his mama or something. But he had that _look_ in his eyes, y'know, like he spent way too much time on the bridge of an Impstar. He acted all like we were none of his business and he was none of ours, but his eyes told me he was bullshittin' us."

"And? Git to da point!" a third masculine voice demanded.

The Corellian snorted.

"The guy says, 'attempting to shoot me would _not_ be advisable'."

His imitation of a typical Coreworld accent was rather exaggerated, Fett found, but it did invoke the mental image of a snooty Imperial officer.

 _Point taken_ , the bounty hunter thought.

"Next thing I know, Churo here goes down like a wet sack o' grain, and I didn't even see the shrimp touch 'em! I pull my gun, and the lil' devil just, like, slaps it outta my hand and decks me in the head-"

"Wait a tick!" a gruff female voice interjected. "There was two o' ya, and y'all got yer arses whooped by a five-foot _wimp_?"

She sounded incredulous, and Churo - the drunk Rimworlder - groaned again. “You lads, I swear. And why'd the boss hire ya two again?”

“Oh, it gets better" the Corellian said gravely. “Guess who the guy was.”

“That dun' sound good" the third man muttered.

“It ain't" Churo groused, his voice muffled. “'Cause high-an'-mighty Navy or not, Firmus Piett sure don't piss around with crim'nal scum like us.”

Now the woman burst out chortling.

“ _That_ piece of Axxilan garbage? Oh, that’s _rich_!”

“Well, ‘scuse me!” Churo snapped back. “How was _I_ gonna know? It ain’t like a lil’ bird told me he was strollin’ ‘round Rulidot like he owned the damn place or some poodoo!”

He was further taunted and made fun of by his companions as Boba Fett’s interest in their conversation waned. The hunter leaned back in his seat as far as his armor’s backpack allowed, sorting out the information he’d just picked up.

The Black Sun had been involved in the murder of an Imperial medic. Where, he had not exactly learned - a place called Rulidot, but at least he had a name to work with.

Secondly, the two grunts sent to do the job were terrible judges of character. A pair of clowns, by the look of it.

Finally, Admiral Firmus Piett of Death Squadron was not to be dismissed as useless in a fight. Fett made a mental note to remember that tidbit in particular. Though the Black Sun were none of his favorite employers, business was no place for grudges, he reminded himself. Unless those were on the employer’s part and went straight towards the target.

Fett rose, his battered armor creaking softly, and was halfway to the bar when the condescending woman from before hollered his name, making him stop in his tracks and whirl around to approach the booth.

“You called?” he grunted as he stood near the stone table and sized up the four thugs.

A stocky, turquoise-skinned Twi’lek slumped over the table, a wiry human of dark complexion, a Zabrak with stumps for horns and said woman, humanoid with distinctly angular Falleen features.

“Aye, I called” she spoke up. “Say, hunter, how many creds’ it take tae hire ya ta take down a greyback?”

Fett decided to play dumb just this once. Betraying his _favorite_ employer like that definitely wasn’t on his agenda.

“Depends on the target. Name it.”

She threw a sidelong glance at the Twi’lek, then scooted a little closer to the hunter and leaned in.

“A hundred and fifty grand” she said in a hushed tone, “for knockin’ Fleet Admiral Firmus Piett of the Imperial Navy outta his spit-polished boots.”

Fett remained silent, and after a moment, the woman pulled a smirk.

“Hella difficult, I know. Target’s no pushover, but y’are the best o’ the best, aye?”

He inclined his head sideways.

“How about two hundred? Or let ye name it, maybe?” she tried again.

His mind screamed at him to _take it and run._

“No deal.”

The half-Falleen blinked, struck dumb by the blunt ‘no, thanks’ even as the masked hunter turned on his heel to pay his tabs and then left the cantina, stepping out into the searing heat of Tatooine’s twin suns.

Business or not, Admiral Piett did _not_ want any bounty hunters stinking up his Fierce Lady’s bridge, and Boba Fett knew when to leave a rule unbroken.


	4. Hailing the Silver Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fierce Lady reports for duty.

For the _Executor_ ’s comm officers, arrival in the Coruscant system meant putting up with even more security measures than above Kuat - and those had already been numerous enough to be cursed to the nine hells and back plenty of times.

It was no wonder, then, that the operators’ collective foul mood hung over the Star Dreadnought’s bridge like a brooding black cloud, even though the men and women were all doing their best to hide it.

_Why bother?_ Captain Kallic thought to himself as he threw a glance across the starboard comm pit. _There’s no use trying to hide something like this when there’s a mind-reader in the same bloody room._

The Lord of the Sith, however, had too much to worry about to listen to the constant chatter of mental voices with even half an ear. Staring out of the great viewports and down at the lustrous planet below, he found that dread was gnawing at him, tearing into marks its familiar tooth had left years ago.

Lord Vader knew well what awaited him in the bowels of the Imperial Palace. His master would punish him for allowing a band of insolent Rebels to slip through his grasp, and he would most certainly _not_ pass up the opportunity to remind his apprentice who was in charge. The Dark Lord had always survived, though - until now.

Until now, his master had had no choice but to stick with the physical and mental wreck Vader was. Until now, there had been no hope of claiming a younger, malleable, _whole_ apprentice. Until now, Vader had never been as expendable as he had just become. Until now, the son of Skywalker had remained a secret.

And the father? He stood alone in the dark, afraid of losing the people he cared for yet again. Fear froze him on the spot, leaving him helpless, forced to watch, to relive the pain -

_“Anakin, you’re going down a path I can’t follow.”_

His angel’s voice, quivering, pleading, echoed like a shout in an abyss. And he vowed to the stars, by her honor and his own, that he would do everything in his power to keep their child safe. He would not allow his master to corrupt the boy.

But first he had to survive, just one more time, and there lay the crux of the matter. He was no good to his son dead.

_I must live._

Oh, Lord Vader knew what to do alright. To play the fool was his purpose, to wait and to strike when the time was right - of that he was certain. And yet, now that the charade was about to be tested once more, he despaired even though there was a light shining in the darkness - his child’s light, there to guide him like a beacon in blackest night.

_I must live, and I must find Luke._

Dread had often served him well, spurring his thoughts into action. Fear for a loved one’s well being, however, left him petrified when he ought to stand and fight, and in that regard, Yoda’s teachings had been correct - fear led to anger, and anger led to hate, which lent him, a Lord of the Sith, unrivaled power.

Thus Vader decided out of sheer spite that he would no longer merely be afraid of his master - he would be terrified and cry out for justice, finally delivering a spark to light the inferno which would shatter his bonds, for the Dark fed off fear and wrath and loathing. He would rave and burn when he was summoned to kneel before Lord Sidious’ throne, and he would rage against the dying of his son’s light.

If Darth Vader were to be brought down, he would _not_ go gentle into that good night.

* * *

 Even with its name sullied and stolen away, Coruscant still gleamed at close of day. The spires of the Imperial Palace, tall and slim and dark, pierced the luminous sky like a vicious beast’s claws.

_ST-321_ was but a speck of stark white as she broke through the darkening clouds; her sleek wings caught the last rays of the sun in flight and sent them away into dusk. The _Lambda_ -class shuttle quickly closed the distance to the Palace and approached a landing pad tucked into an alcove within one of the sky-high towers.

As soon as her wings had folded up and the ship’s pilot had set her down smoothly on the platform, the boarding ramp was lowered, and down through the noxious fumes strode Lord Vader in a flurry of black robes, followed by an aide in Navy blue-grey.

Before entering the tower, he took a moment to throw a glance at the bustling ecumenopolis far below. It would be a breathtaking sight, were it not all tinted crimson by the lenses of Vader’s helmet.

The system informed him of the local atmospheric conditions via a discreet message box at the edge of his vision, pointing out the strong winds in particular. Its readings proved accurate as the aide produced an indignant noise of distress.

“My Lord” she nearly squeaked, clutching her cap as her curly hair was hopelessly disheveled by a mighty gust of wind, “I completely understand that you would like to enjoy the sight a little longer, but His Majesty awaits-”

“I am quite aware of the Emperor’s impatience, Commander Neradi” the Dark Lord replied.

He led the way into the inside of the spire, and the aide scrambled not to keep him waiting for too long when he stepped into the next turbolift. The cabin began its journey downward, and its low hum became the only sound next to the rasp of Vader’s respirator.

Commander Thorba Neradi forced herself to relax, though it was not quite easy with a black-armored, masked Sith Lord (who could kill her with just a thought) standing right next to her. Perhaps she wasn’t always as calm and collected as she ought to be, but she was indeed trying her damnedest to do her job well nevertheless.

Little did she know that her Lord was at least as uneasy as she was.

Were his hands not artificial, they might have been shaking; his heart beat slightly faster, if only because the suit allowed it.

The suit… it was just another spell of claustrophobia, Vader knew. Just another, adding to the already great number of fits that had passed. He had stopped counting a long time ago.

_I must live._

Those three words he had repeated in his head over and over since the moment the massive blast doors of the _Executor_ ’s bridge had slammed shut behind him.

_I must live._

Commander Neradi had been perfectly correct in her reminder that His Majesty awaited him, and he was irritated at her for that very reason. Lord Sidious awaited him only to punish him for his most recent failures. And for keeping the son of Skywalker a secret.

_I must live. For Luke._

He wanted so badly to reach out with the Force and crush Neradi’s throat, if only to let someone’s agony fuel the smoldering embers of the Dark. He _wanted_ to kill her for the sake of snuffing out a life, and yet he brought up the effort to restrain himself.

_No, I must save my strength for standing up to my master. Her life would be wasted._

The Commander was indeed one of those ever-elusive Imperial officers who actually knew what they were doing. While she did have trouble keeping her cool in certain situations, Lord Vader was willing to overlook that fault as long as Neradi remained useful and competent. Otherwise, he would not hesitate to make her share the fate of Admiral Ozzel and Captain Needa. Over the last ten years, he had learned to spot a potential wrench in the Imperial war machine's cogs with a keen eye, and he did not tolerate any more foul-ups under the green insignia of Death Squadron - especially not since a particularly humiliating accident involving three cruisers and imprecise hyperspace jump coordinates had resulted in the smaller vessels crashing bows-first into the _Executor_ 's deflector shields. It definitely had not been how the Dark Lord had imagined his new flagship's maiden voyage to go; fortunately for the culprit, the man had been reduced to stardust in the very same incident.

Making a note that Commander Neradi was to be kept a close eye on, Vader stepped out of the turbolift as soon as its doors slid open again.

He did not even have to reach out into the Force to sense his master’s presence. It lay deep beneath a shroud of poisoned shadows, sinister and vile, and reeking of death. Even the Sith Lords of old would have felt disgusted at a Force signature to thoroughly saturated with the Dark, and so had Lord Vader when he had been christened, kneeling before Lord Sidious as the Chosen One fell. Now, though, the corruption had seeped into his bones like creeping cold - he had long since given up on struggling against it.

Terror came rising from the depths of a gaping abyss as a specter would from a nightmare. Vader clung tightly to it, even encouraged it as the beast howled; the Dark stirred, then surged with the wail, leaving scorched earth in its wake.

_I must live._

Three words shed precious light on the Dark Lord’s clouded path as he strode down empty hallways and doorless corridors, ever closer to the black haze.

_Luke… I must live for Luke._

Before long, Commander Neradi was dismissed, and Lord Vader came to a half in front of a mighty double door made of fine Nubian ebony and burnished durasteel in the rich black of deepest space. The scarlet robes of the four Royal Guards standing on either side of the door in groups of two hardly stood out in Vader’s vision, bright in color as they might be.

Two of the Guards bowed curtly, and the others inclined their heads.

“His Majesty awaits” one stated, his voice muffled and even slightly distorted by his helmet.

The Dark Lord remained silent. Of course his master awaited.

Without missing a beat, the two Guards in the back turned around to grasp the door’s twin leaves by hidden handles. Vader wasted no time in leaving them behind him as the door swung open with a low, rumbling creak.

_I must live for Luke’s sake_ , he repeated to himself for the last time.

His prosthetic hands clenched into fists.

The throne room was as dark as it was vast - dark enough for Vader’s visor to switch to night vision mode, making the chamber appear in a gloomy monochrome red. The walls stretched upwards for three stories, dimly illuminated by thin strips of glowing diodes, and extended far to form a long, narrow hall. At its end, the fading light of Coruscant’s sun fell through a large circular viewport; in the shadow below, invisible to the unfamiliar eye, lay the throne.

Lord Vader wasted no time in marching towards it. As his boots thumped softly on the thick velvety carpet leading the way, he focused on the sound which might as well be the pounding of his heart and blocked out everything else beyond the throne chamber’s walls - even the vivid light of his son’s presence. He commanded the Force to form mighty shields around his mind like a fortress.

_Out!_

The mental aegis held tight. It eased Vader’s dread by a precious small amount, just enough to allow the ravenous Dark to sink its claws into the flesh of fear without driving it mad with bloodlust.

Patience was of the essence now, more so than ever.

The Dark Lord squeezed his eyes shut as he stepped into the cone of light falling into the hall through the viewport. Though Coruscant Prime had just set, his visor’s high sensitivity brightened the faint glow to a blinding extent, forcing Vader to keep his head down as he knelt before Darth Sidious, known to the common man as First Galactic Emperor Sheev Palpatine.

“What is thy bidding, my master?” he rumbled.

“Ah, my friend” Palpatine said sweetly, “I have been waiting for you.”

Vader’s apprehension spiked. That saccharine tone had always heralded a punishment to remember.

He dared not open his eyes, lest his mental shields shatter and fall; he could not afford to leave his mind defenseless when his body was already so vulnerable to whatever harm his master wished to inflict.

“Rise, Lord Vader” Lord Sidious commanded, and his apprentice obeyed, eyes still closed to ward off the white blaze.

The light rustling of robes, relayed by too-sensitive auditory sensors and interrupted by the harsh clack of a metal cane on the decorated floor, accompanied the movement as the Emperor rose from his throne. Vader raised his head and cracked an eye open - the blinding light was gone, its place taken by his master’s hooded, red-tinted form.

“Come, my friend. Walk with me.”

Were the mask not in the way, Sidious might have relished in his apprentice’s blank stare of petrified terror.

Vader complied nevertheless - perhaps a display of deference might cool the Emperor’s wrath, if only just enough to let him live to die another day. He did not dare call upon the image of his beloved son, for it would only serve to make the boy even more of a target, and he highly preferred dying at Sidious’ hands to purposefully endangering his child.

No, Lord Vader would have to stand and fret for now, cowering at his master’s feet.

“The search for young Skywalker did not go well, I see” the Emperor rasped.

“It did not, Master. He escaped yet again” Vader responded, glad that his vocoder masked the tremor in his voice.

“Indeed.”

Leading the way to a hidden door to the left of his throne, Sidious sneered up at his apprentice.

“I sense your fear, Lord Vader. Do not be afraid - I have foreseen that young Skywalker would slip through our grasp” he said, “and that we must no longer hunt him, for he shall come to us on his own when the time is right.”

Vader swore he could feel his heart glazing over with ice.

“He will _come to us_?” he repeated incredulously.

“Yes” Sidious drawled, his amber eyes glinting beneath his cowl. “The Force was in such turmoil when the boy learned the truth… in time, he will seek you out, filled with the foolish belief that Anakin Skywalker still lives. Tell me, Lord Vader, is it truly foolish?”

“Anakin is gone” the Dark Lord hissed. “He was _weak_. I destroyed him.”

“Indeed, Anakin is dead” his master mused aloud, “and his light with him. That of his child will stand no chance against the Dark.”

As they spoke, the two Sith Lords had traversed a dimly lit antechamber and now stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the outskirts of the palace grounds.

“There is another matter I wish to discuss, my friend” Sidious said in a lighter, more amicable tone.

Vader stiffened and prepared himself for the worst, for, the excruciating pain that came with tendrils of Force lightning dancing over his form with twisted grace - only to be regarded with a wave of dark amusement sweeping ever so lightly across the bond of master and apprentice.

“I have been informed that your personal physician has been killed. Is that true?”

The Dark Lord shifted his weight uneasily.

“It is, Master” he responded, “but how does it matter?”

“I am offering you a replacement.”

It occurred to Vader that this entire day was becoming too good to be true. He decided not to tempt fate any further.

“Thank you, Master” he said aloud.

“Think nothing of it, my friend” Sidious told him. “I am certain Dr. Naberrie will serve you well. I shall send her to your flagship within two days’ time.”

_Naberrie?!_

Vader froze, which his master ignored tactfully. Were his knees not artificial, they would have gone weak and given way under his weight.

The image of his beloved Padmé, a ghost he had been trying to banish for too long, flashed in his mind like a turbolaser blast.

_“...a path I can’t follow.”_

Those words had been spoken in her darkest hour, and yet the Dark Lord’s angel still haunted him even after bygone decades. Now he could see, nay, _sense_ a faint shimmer of light in the distance, as if a lightning burst’s afterglow had cast a soft blanket of warmly glowing clouds over vast plains - and for just a moment, he allowed himself to believe that perhaps she had lived, perhaps he had _not_ ….

It took him all of his willpower to remember that _no, Padmé is dead_ , and he shut his eyes once more as the Force cried out in protest.

_I killed her._

“She is gone indeed, Lord Vader” Sidious hissed. “You would be wise to remember that.”

Vader inclined his head.

“Yes, Master.”

“Good… good. You are dismissed for now, my apprentice. There are matters I must attend to.”

With that, his master took his leave, and the Dark Lord was left alone beneath the stars’ watchful gaze, staring out into the night.

_I lived_ , he thought hollowly. _I lived... and now?_

He truly had not expected to make it this far.

* * *

 Several tens of kilometers higher above the surface of Coruscant, Admiral Piett failed to take his gaze off the holographic projections in the middle of the conference room next to the _Executor_ ’s bridge.

He squinted at the pale blue numbers and the colorful diagrams, briefly wondering if perhaps he’d had too many drinks or had stayed up too late the evening before, then exhaled sharply and pushed himself upright from where he’d been leaning on the polished black conference table.

“Captain!” he called.

With nary a moment’s hesitation, Captain Kallic came scurrying around the table to stand to his superior’s left.

“Yes, sir?”

Piett turned to face him, shooting him a disgruntled look.

“One of those variables must be incorrect,” he said irritably. “There is no reasonable way our deflector shield efficiency could possibly have gone up by over fifteen percent in the last two weeks!”

Kallic set his datapad down to point at the number in question.

“This here, sir? I see nothing wrong with it. More shield generators have been installed at Kuat Drive Yards, as the reports clearly state.”

“Yes, I can see that” Piett responded, “but fourteen new deflectors hardly make a difference compared to several thousand existing ones. Either these figures are simply incorrect, Captain, or your reports are.”

“Or perhaps a sensor is malfunctioning” Kallic suggested. “Or the simulation subroutine is faulty.”

The Admiral remained silent for a moment, staring through the holograms with his brow furrowed, before his expression darkened.

“Or the Drive Yards have installed more than just shield generators.”

Kallic blinked.

“That… sounds rather far-fetched, sir” he said cautiously, “and even though it is a valid suspicion, we have no proof at all that KDY might have done more work on the _Lady_ than just maintenance.”

Piett eyed the holographic projections one more time, then fully faced his Captain.

“I will speak to His Lordship about this matter. Until you receive an update, Captain, I want you to dispatch a number of tech teams to inspect the new deflectors and report anything out of the ordinary.

“But sir, they’ve just undergone a thorough check before we even left the Kuat system!” Kallic protested.

“Then have them checked again _more_ thoroughly. It may look like a tremendous fuss to make over some figures, Captain, but the increase in deflector efficiency is an obvious outlier among them. To say that it concerns me would be quite an understatement.”

Piett’s tone was impassive, and yet it struck that chord that spelled _danger!_ to his subordinate.

“I understand, sir” Kallic responded somewhat hoarsely, swallowing the lump that had just formed in his throat. “It will be done. I’ll leave you a notice when the engineers are ready.”

The Admiral nodded.

“Yes, do so, Captain. If any of the teams find anything, forward those reports to me immediately.”

“Yessir. Is there anything else?”

“No, that is all. I will personally review the figures further.”

As Piett removed a silver datacard from its slot on the projector, the device shut down, its holograms dissipated, and the light diodes in the ceiling once again cast their cold glow across the room.

"You are dismissed for now, Captain."

"Sir!"

Kallic saluted and then set to gathering his plethora of datapads while the Admiral left and stepped out into the corridor to make his way to the bridge.

_Just had a three-day shore leave, and you're already wishing for another_ , he chided himself.

He felt a headache coming, a stinging pain settling in his forehead. Reviewing the recent modifications to the _Executor_ 's hardware along with Captain Kallic had been tiring, and the discovery of something highly suspicious about the shield generators had left him uneasy. Still, he was proud to see his Fierce Lady in otherwise perfect working order.

Piett smiled thinly to himself. He might no longer be her Captain, but the _Executor_ was his, more so than ever - his Lady, his Empress, the Silver Queen to be hailed. Were the Star Dreadnought a being of flesh and blood, she would be cherished by her crew as a mother to them all - kind and caring to countless human lives, yet more than deadly when she marched to war; a shield and a sword, both lover and killer. Being of humble birth himself, her Admiral thoroughly enjoyed the honor of commanding the galaxy's finest ship.

It crossed his mind that he might just be both the luckiest and the least fortunate man on board as the bridge's massive blast doors slid shut behind him and he was greeted by a young petty officer hurrying towards him.

"Admiral, sir!" the Lieutenant addressed him, saluting hastily. "Lord Vader has just commed us. He has ordered that you contact his planetside aide a-sap, sir."

"Then I will do so, Lieutenant. Prepare the comm station for a secure transmission."

"Aye-aye, sir!"

They saluted once more before turning on their heel to follow their orders; Piett's mind was already somewhere else.

_As if I haven't stared at enough holograms today_ , he thought irritably, entering the holocomm chamber through an inconspicuous door on the bridge's starboard side.

The station had been remotely booted up, its screen displaying _READY_ in bright cyan Aurebesh. Piett sighed and rubbed his aching forehead, then dialed the appropriate ID number, drawing himself up to stand straight. It did not take long for the call to be picked up and the channel to be secured, and the holographic bust of a dark-skinned woman in her thirties materialized above the station's projector as the lights dimmed.

" _Sir_!"

She saluted swiftly, which the Admiral returned.

" _Commander Thorba Neradi at your service, sir_."

Piett nodded, suppressing the urge to tap his foot in impatience.

"Lord Vader has ordered me to contact you, Commander."

" _Yessir, he informed me so. His Lordship has received orders from His Majesty which he instructed me to forward to you. Transmitting documents now, sir_."

The Admiral eyed the screen, which now read _ENCRYPTED FILES RECEIVED_.

"Copy that" he said. "Is there anything else?"

" _No, sir, not now. Lord Vader said he would comm me as soon as he was finished with his business at the Palace. He has not contacted me further so far_."

"Thank you, Commander. That would be all. You are dismissed."

" _Sir_."

Neradi saluted, and Piett cut the transmission. As the lights sprang back to full brightness, he felt as if a lightsaber were slowly slicing his skull in two. The pain burned agonizingly behind his squinting eyes as he copied the files to one of his code cylinders, shut off the comm station and left the chamber to retire to his quarters, leaving the bridge to Rear Admiral Chiraneau.

He needed a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive kudos to queerbuckthrace on tumblr for being a super nice beta reader! <3


	5. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New faces come to serve the Lady and her Lord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not dead! I did not have permission to die!
> 
> ...yes, that was a TF2 reference.

Khordan Tondi awoke to a headache the size of a Star Dreadnought.

Though his body felt numb, a dull ache throbbed all over his head from his temples down to the tips of his lekku, and he could not recall what had happened before he’d had the lights knocked out of him.

The Twi’lek grimaced without moving otherwise. Gradually, sensation returned to him, and he found that he was sitting slumped in a hard metal chair of sorts. The air was cold; not enough so to be biting, but just enough to heighten his discomfort.

A shudder ran down Tondi’s spine as his memory came rushing back - bone-chillingly harsh winds howling across endless frozen plains, dejected faces lighting up with a glimmer of relief, the ground quaking with rolling thunder, the snow glowing red and green as the frosty air was alight with mad crossfire -

 _Hoth_. He’d been on Hoth. The Empire had struck with might, vicious and fast, leaving gnarly wounds for the Alliance to tend.

A datapad beeped somewhere. Twice. Heavy footfalls of metal-toed jackboots on durasteel. A low rumbling - the eternal growl of a Star Destroyer’s engines. No escape.

Tondi slowly lifted his head and cracked open his bloodshot, sore eyes, only to find himself staring into the vaguely familiar face of a scowling Imperial officer - a male Human, like many of them.

The man was _enormous_. In fact, he was so tall and powerfully built that he might just as well be a particularly burly stormtrooper. His spotless uniform was the Army's shade of olive, however; eight red and blue platelets adorned his gleaming rank plaque, and he definitely stood too straight and proud to pass as a mere muscle-bound grunt with barely enough brains to follow orders and fire an E-11. Not that it was possible to shoot straight with that blaster model anyway.

It took Tondi’s sluggish brain another moment to recognize those stern, chiseled features and realize that he was looking right at the stony mask of the Imperial propaganda machine’s darling, Major General Maximilian 'Iron Max' Veers.

As his prisoner produced a strangled yelp and shied away, the general remained silent, staring down at him with a deflector-crushing glower devoid of all emotion. After what felt like an eternity to Tondi, he finally turned away to address the black-clad Stormtrooper Corps captain standing behind him, a datapad in her hands.

"Have you gotten anything useful out of him so far?" Veers inquired with a barely concealed edge to his voice, no less cold and calculating than his gaze.

"Negative, sir" the junior officer responded, shaking her head minutely. "He’s been zoning in and out of consciousness for the whole time, and when he _was_ awake, he wouldn’t talk. No name, no allegiance, nothing."

Veers narrowed his eyes to slits, scanning Tondi from head to toe.

"Most likely a Rebel, but I do not believe he looks the part. He might just be an accomplice."

"I must disagree, sir" the captain replied quickly, her voice dropping slightly in tone as she went on. “I saw him gun down two of my troopers without a moment’s hesitation, sir. An honest citizen in their right mind would certainly think twice about pulling a blaster on a squad of stormies in full kit… if he’s not a Rebel, not a smuggler and obviously not a pirate, sir, what does that make him?”

"Otherwise affiliated with groups actively undermining Imperial order. The Rebel Alliance isn't the only one caught in this flaming mess of a war after all” the general said, then paused, throwing a disdainful glance at the prisoner. "Perhaps he would be more talkative in an IT-O's presence."

Tondi’s purple skin had already dulled in color with sheer stress; now he turned a sickly hue of pink in a matter of seconds.

"What?! _No_!" he all but shrieked.

"Then _answer_ the captain's _questions_ " Veers hissed. " _Truthfully._ "

The officer eyed her datapad before scrutinizing Tondi, who gulped in a lungful of cold air that left his dry throat stinging. He nodded weakly, his bound hands trembling.

“Are you a member of the Rebel Alliance?”

He heaved another breath and wetted his lips.

“No, I am not” he said hoarsely. “I’m an independent businessman.”

The captain scribbled on her datapad with a stylus. Veers appeared to have turned into a statue of flesh and blood, looming menacingly over the man at his mercy.

“State your name and the nature of your business.”

Tondi looked down at the metal stun cuffs holding his bruised wrists in place, if only to avoid the general’s stone-cold gaze. He fixed his eyes on a droplet of sweat that had fallen on the binders, glinting in the ceiling diodes’ harsh light.

“Tondi” he muttered. “Khordan Tondi. Junk, leftovers, used wares, but never contraband that I was aware of. Roving.”

More scribbling.

“The Alliance pays well for spare parts of all sorts” he went on without thinking, “I suppose being handy ‘round a ‘spanner comes with run-”

“What was your business on Hoth?” the captain cut in.

Tondi’s lekku quivered, picking up sensations beyond Human perception. His keen hearing informed him that Veers had shifted his weight - judging by the soft rustle of synthwool and the squeak of boot soles - and, inaudible to Human ears, inhaled sharply the moment his subordinate had mentioned the frozen planet. Perhaps he might have been the one to direct the ground assault on the Rebel base, the Twi’lek prisoner mused.

“Mister Tondi?”

He made an effort to look up. No visible change in the general’s behavior, though the captain was now impatiently twirling the stylus between her fingers.

“Nothing significant” he answered, perhaps a little too quickly. “My ship and merchandise were lost in the crossfire. No point in digging up old ledgers when I’m going to start over anyway.”

A sinking feeling of _shouldn’t have said that_ settled heavily in his stomach as the officer turned to her superior.

“Sir, shall I request an IT-O?”

He delayed his response by just a moment, long enough to leave Tondi effectively scared stiff.

“That will not be necessary, Captain” Veers replied coolly, shot his prisoner a chilling glare and stepped forward.

Eyes wide, Tondi craned his neck to keep up with the senior officer, who came to stand directly behind him. He thought he could feel his heart skip a beat as he sensed - or imagined? - a pair of hands hovering far too close to his lekku, strong fingers clenching as if they already held the delicate appendages within their iron grip. To his minor relief, the hands quickly dropped.

He briefly wondered how in the nine hells an Imperial groundpounder knew how exactly to torture a Twi’lek. All it usually took to make a member of that species scream their throat raw in agony was a bone-crushing squeeze to their lekku.

“I won’t ask again” the captain snapped.

“I-it was just a delivery!” Tondi squawked. “Just a handful of f-fusion furnaces to keep Echo Base-”

Leather creaked softly as Veers’ gloved hands curled into fists. Tondi’s blood ran colder yet, and he felt his throat constrict with paralyzing fear. Knuckles meeting skull, especially at the back, would knock him right out; he had no doubt that _that_ bruise would never heal, should the general wish to put his tremendous strength to use. Veers never pulled his punches, that much Tondi knew.

“How long have you been dealing with the Rebels?”

The captain had put on a deadpan façade as well, though it did not intimidate her prisoner nearly as effectively as her superior’s presence did.

“Not long” Tondi was quick to respond, though shakily. “Couple of months by the time of the battle on Hoth.”

“Was it your first time running errands for them?”

He hesitated with his next response.

“...no, it wasn’t. It’s far from my first job under the Starbird.”

“Repeat offender, then. I see” the officer said and looked up to address Veers. “I believe that will suffice, sir. Shall we pass him on to the flimsi pushers?”

“W-wait!” Tondi cried. “I - answer just one question! Please-!”

One of the captain’s eyebrows quirked up.

“Make it quick, lowlife.”

“On Hoth…” he asked uncertainly, shivering and thoroughly intimidated now. “Who… who led the ground assault?”

“That would be me” Veers’ sharp voice replied without a moment’s hesitation, far too close to Tondi’s ears for comfort.

The prisoner would have slumped in his seat, were he not sitting ramrod-straight with fright. Jackboot soles squeaking yet again made him jump as the general strode past him to take his leave, gesturing for the captain to follow.

Even after the door had slid shut and sealed up behind the two officers, Tondi felt a lingering cold in his gut. _Passed on to the flimsi pushers._ That meant that he might not be tried or executed or shipped off to Kessel after all. He knew he was supposed to take that hope and hold on tightly to it, but he could not help wondering why the general had been there to _personally_ interrogate just one insignificant prisoner.

Surely there had to be more important ones, like some high-ranking Rebel officers or actual outlaws with multiple figures’ worth of bounties on their heads. Surely Khordan Tondi was just another black market dealer in the eyes of the law, and not even a particularly wealthy one. Surely there was absolutely no evidence of the business he did with the Rebels - he had always taken care to tie up loose ends and cover his tracks and routinely check his contacts and connections. Surely he would be released and have to start over from scratch, since his ship and all his belongings had been left on Hoth. Surely ‘Iron Max’ Veers could care less about what Tondi had to say to an interrogator.

Still quivering, Tondi stared off into empty space as he mulled over the all too close encounter with the Imperial general the Alliance feared most, if the rumors and stories he had heard during his brief stay at Echo Base were anything to go by. From what he had gleaned from overheard conversations, Veers had been fighting for the Empire for a long time but had not become the menace he was now until he had been placed under Darth Vader’s command. Being led by Vader, it seemed, lent him a frightening ruthlessness in battle, resulting in horrendous amounts of casualties - brave Rebel soldiers were gunned down, blasted to pieces, even crushed underfoot by one of the mighty AT-AT walkers, if the rumors were true. Tondi did not consider himself religious nor superstitious, but he had to admit that there might be something to the Rebel soldiers’ wild theories about Vader influencing Veers’ mind with the Force and bringing out his bloodthirsty side.

Whatever the truth was, he would highly prefer not to cross the general again. The man was terrifying enough on his own - he was nothing short of a harbinger of death with an army at his side.

* * *

 

"General, sir, what is our next course of action?" the captain asked as she trailed along with Veers.

She nearly struggled to keep up with his long strides. Not as much as one would with Lord Vader, who went on his way with little regard for the distance at which others followed; Veers was usually much more considerate, though now he seemed distant in every sense of the word, as if a dark cloud was looming above him.

“ _Sir_?” the captain tried again once she had quickened her steps and caught up, looking up at the towering senior officer with demure eyes.

"It surprises me how easily they break” Veers said grimly, evidently ignoring her question.

The captain’s gaze flicked around, and she could swear she felt a shudder run down her spine.

Of course they easily broke. The general was not known for being particularly fond of parlaying - like a good soldier was supposed to do, he shot first and asked questions later. There might be no shooting involved in the case of interrogations - it was less force and more sheer intimidation - though the principle was more or less the same.

"Well" the junior officer ventured, fidgeting with her datapad, "we crushed the Rebels on Hoth alright, sir, and their morale with them. They're scared out of their wits of you, if I may say so. Sir."

"That only applies to the survivors” Veers grunted. “Those poor sods in the brigs can’t go around telling horror stories now, can they?”

The captain could only shake her head in response.  Not that she directly dealt with him often, but the way she knew him, he never was so absent-minded in his subordinates’ presence. It was almost unsettling.

“N-no, sir, they can’t… I’m afraid I don’t see your point.”

“Nevermind” Veers muttered, coming to a halt and turning sharply to face his subordinate. “Captain, you’ve done well with the interrogations. You are dismissed.”

The captain reflexively snapped to attention and saluted.

“Yessir. Thank you, sir!”

Veers only nodded before turning around again and striding away, leaving the captain thoroughly confused.

What in the nine hells had gotten into Death Squadron’s general?

* * *

 

Higher up in the _Executor_ ’s vast structure, Lord Vader stood before the expanse of a wide viewport in the main room of what was soon to be Dr. Naberrie’s quarters. He stared at the glittering form of Coruscant below, not exactly agitated nor completely at ease. The Dark Lord both could not wait to see the doctor and wished he would not have to.  
Just ten minutes ago an aide had informed him that Naberrie’s shuttle had docked, which meant that she was bound to arrive any moment now. Vader stretched his senses, searching, probing.  
The doctor's Force signature was there alright, and he found that there was something strangely familiar to it, like the faint glow of a distant star - as if he had met her before a long time ago. As he reached out to take a look at her memories, an incorporeal voice howled its protest from the depths of his own mind. It felt deeply _wrong_ , and so he let it be, even though the burning curiosity only intensified more the closer the doctor came.

The door to her assigned quarters could not slide open soon enough.  
"Greetings, Dr. Naberrie. I have been expecting you."  
Vader turned around as he spoke, still intrigued but otherwise unsuspecting; he froze on the spot the moment he laid eyes on Naberrie.  
A memory flashed in his mind, swift as a thunderbolt but no less powerful. The blaze of twin suns, the grating winds - when had he last felt the gentle caress of wind on his skin? - a child and a young woman, a slave and a queen -  
_"Are you an angel?"_  
Had the machines not complete control over his vital functions, Vader would have forgotten to breathe. Dr. Elysé Naberrie bore an uncanny, if not outright disturbing resemblance to Queen Padmé Amidala. Granted, she looked much older that Padmé had ever been and had short curly blonde hair as opposed to the late Senator's cascade of chestnut waves, and though Naberrie's eyes were not hazel but icy blue, there was the same fierceness to them that had lent Amidala her power of persuasion where her words had not sufficed.  
The spell broke as she bowed before Vader, at which he could not help feeling like it was the wrong thing for her to do.

“I am honored to serve you, Lord Vader.”

Blast it, even her voice sounded exactly like Padmé’s. Could she be-

 _No, you wretched old fool. Padmé is_ dead.

“The pleasure is mine, Doctor” Vader responded, inclining his head as the physician straightened again. “I do hope my faith in the Emperor’s recommendation was not misplaced.”

Those blue eyes of hers looked blue even through his helmet’s red-tinted lenses. Reaching out to let his mind brush hers, he could not find a single hint of fear, only a steadfast will to serve. He didn’t know what pained him more - knowing that Padmé would never have submitted so willingly to anyone, or the certainty that she was dead and this could not possibly be her.

“It was not, my Lord. My expertise is at your disposal.”

As paltry a consolation that was, Vader decided to call her by her first name - then perhaps he might stop seeing that ghost in her place every time he looked at her.

 _Elysé. Not_ her _. Her name is Elysé._

“I expect nothing less than top performance. Is that clear?”

“Yes, my Lord. Crystal clear.”

Her blonde curls swayed as she nodded sharply, eyes bright and attentive, gleaming with hidden passion.

“Good” Vader replied curtly, gesturing around the room. “These quarters have been assigned to you. An aide of mine will contact you shortly to assist you with taking care of the formalities. Should you require anything, do not hesitate to comm them.”

Elysé nodded again in response, and Vader turned around but stopped halfway to look back at her. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but she had barely just arrived aboard the _Executor_ . He would have to wait, as bright as the desire to ask, to _know_ , burned in his heart.

Elysé had approached the viewport and stood with her back to Vader, presumably admiring the view of Coruscant. Not moving from his own spot, the Dark Lord allowed his presence to circle hers to try and steal a glance at her thoughts, but her mind was sealed tight with an impenetrable mental shield. Vader tried again, and a third time to no avail to pry it open. Perplexed, he examined the shielding and found that there was something mocking to it, almost as if it the mind that had placed it - there was no way Elysé could possibly have done it herself and kept out _the Dark Lord_ \- was the very embodiment of malice.

Something clicked in Vader, and he only stared at Elysé’s back. Why would his master deny him access to the doctor’s mind? It was both unusual and did not surprise Vader in the least. Of course there had to be a catch to the Emperor’s gracious offer to replace the late Dr. Polor. Vader thought to himself that his master might even have been behind his former physician’s murder in the first place.

Now was not the right time to have those treasonous thoughts, though. He had the first crucial steps to take to ensure that he and Elysé would work together well.

* * *

 

As the day cycle neared its end, the officers’ lounge sitting just two decks above the _Executor_ ’s bridge gradually filled with guests of rank both high and low. By 1900 Imperial Standard Time, the bridge itself was manned by a completely different set of staff, and that of the previous watch had dispersed to the lounge, the nearest mess hall, or their own quarters. Making sure that the galaxy’s largest warship sailed smoothly was hard work after all.

 _Six cafs weren’t enough,_ Admiral Piett thought tiredly as he trudged into the lounge, nodding his head at the almost obnoxiously cheerful greeter droid.

Usually he didn’t mind the noise, but now the music, chatter and laughter only served to irritate him. Barely a standard month had passed since the Battle of Hoth and the admiral’s field promotion, and Piett already regretted everything. Resigning his position and going back to the captaincy was not an option, but he still wished nothing had changed. Even the late Admiral Ozzel’s continued abuse of rank had not quite been as bad as Piett’s current situation - deprived of rest, running on caf and protein rations, swamped with paperwork and left on his own.

The admiral looked around with weary eyes and took the shortest route to the bar, where the noise was the loudest, but he needed a drink and could not bring himself to care whether his ears were going to curse him later. He took a seat next to a pack of laughing groundpounders, who evidently had something to celebrate. Piett ordered some grog and then took to staring down at his trembling gloved hands.

_Kriffing hells, Fir, look what you got yourself into. What are those rank bars even worth if you’re a wreck after a month already? Some admiral you are._

When the barkeep droid placed the drink in front of Piett, he hardly hesitated to grab the glass and lift it to his lips and would have downed half the grog within a few moments, had there not been a voice quietly calling his name from behind. Muttering a curse to himself, Piett lowered the glass back to the smooth wooden surface of the bar and turned his head.

“Good evening, Admiral” General Veers greeted him, approaching him with a drink of his own in hand, and gestured to the seat next to him. “May I join you?”

“It’s good to see you, General” Piett responded tiredly. “Yes, yes, do sit down…”

“Most gracious, sir” Veers remarked and took a seat, setting his drink down on the bar.

The admiral nodded and glanced at his own glass before looking back at his Army counterpart, then his gaze fell to Veers’ drink.

“Max, what in Bossato’s name is _that_?” Piett just about squawked, staring down at the glass.

The drink in question was a murky, opaque white liquid producing a small cloud of vapor that dissipated higher up in the temperate air. Its tall cylindrical glass was adorned with small blue crystals and glistened with perspiration, the handprint left by Veers’ glove fading gradually. As Piett blinked and lifted his eyes, Veers pulled one of those infuriatingly disarming smirks of his.

“It’s called a Hoth Daiquiri. The ‘tender made this one with Corellian rum, jogan juice and a sweetener mix the _Thunders_ swear by. It’s usually served at negative thirty degrees… this one’s a little warmer, but it’s still _bloody_ cold.”

Piett nodded mutely and eyed Veers’ glass, raising his own again.

“Me, I’ve settled for some grog. If I’m going to feel horrible in the morning anyway, I might as well enjoy a drink” he said dryly.

The general’s smirk faded.

“Skipper, if you ‘feel horrible anyway’, something’s wrong. I understand that you might think you’re fine, but those awful bags under your eyes tell me otherwise.”

He gestured to Piett’s face, which earned him a scowl.

“Being mothered is the _last_ thing I need now, dirtpounder” Piett snapped. “I can’t even have a drink to ease some of the pressure without some snooty _sleemo_ coming along and-”

The admiral broke off, turning away and pinching the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt the telltale sting of another headache coming. Veers said nothing and only pressed his lips together, sighing quietly to himself.

“I’m sorry, Max” the sailor muttered, reaching up to rub his temples. “I… haven’t gotten much sleep lately, and I’ve got a short fuse when I’m drowning in bumf…”

He looked up as a warm, heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder, and followed the arm it was attached to with his gaze, ending up looking into Veers’ concerned dark eyes.

“Skipper, you need to take a break” the general told him quietly. “Tell you what, you go to your quarters now, do _only_ the bumf that absolutely can’t wait until tomorrow, and then you lie down and get a good night’s sleep. How’s that sound?”

His hand squeezed Piett’s shoulder gently, and the admiral sighed and hung his head, turning away.

“Oh, Max, you’re always so overprotective. I’m _fine_. The sooner I can get it done-”

He produced an indignant squeak as two large gloved paws cupped his face and forced him to face Veers, who had dropped the soft-spoken act and now was the stern, no-nonsense general again. Piett had considered himself lucky to never have been on the receiving end on one of Iron Max’ legendary dressing-downs, but it seemed that now was his time to get one.

“ _Firmus_ ” Veers growled, his stony mask of command firmly in place, “I am _ordering_ you to put self-care above your duty in order to be able to continue doing the latter. If you keep this up, you’re going to be a complete wreck within a month and His Lordship’s going to go look for a better admiral.”

He let go of Piett’s face and let his hands’ weight rest on his slight, bony shoulders.

“And guess what, there _isn’t_ one. You’re the best admiral Death Squadron could possibly wish for. Hells, I’d say that even if we weren’t so close. I appreciate talent when I see some, and you’ve got a bloody lot of it.”

The general sighed and kept looking at Piett for a moment before turning away and taking a generous sip of his drink, the minuscule redness on his cheeks intensifying as his body fought off the biting cold.

“I appreciate the concern, Max” he muttered, eyes downcast. “Thank you. And… you’re right. I can’t lead the fleet in this sorry state.”

He flinched as Veers clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it firmly.

“ _That’s_ the spirit, Skipper!”

Eyes lingering on Veers’ now half-empty glass, the sailor threw a glance at his own drink.

“I don’t think I feel like drinking anymore now… I’d rather not wake up hungover tomorrow… it’s a shame for the creds, though...”

“Nevermind the grog, Firmus. I’ll take it.”

Piett looked up at the smiling general, failing to hold back a wry grin.

“Are you sure you can take that Navy-grade stuff, dirtpounder? You know we vac-heads like our booze strong.”

“Nonsense!” Veers shot back, mirroring the grin. “If I can drink _this_ without keeling over-” - he motioned to his Hoth Daiquiri - “-I can bloody well take a shot of Death Squadron grog. It can’t be much worse than Mando Narcolethe, can it?”

Piett shook his head but took his glass and placed it in front of Veers.

“Fine, General, but don’t come bawling at my door at oh-four-hundred if this stuff doesn’t agree with you.”

Chuckling, the general patted his shoulder and then flicked a hand towards the exit.

“It’s _my_ body, and _my_ choice what I do with it. Now shoo, sailor.”

Piett spun on his seat and got to his feet, reaching out to return the gesture.

“Goodnight, Max. I’ll see you tomorrow on the bridge.”

“Goodnight, Firmus. Off you go!”

Both officers smiled at each other before the admiral stepped away and turned around to leave, still thinking about Veers even as he took the turbolift to his quarters, finished the most urgent of his paperwork there and then tucked in for the night.

 _Why hadn’t I listened to anyone else telling me the same thing he did?_ he mused, sleep quickly clouding his thoughts. _I suppose I like him best..._


End file.
